My consciousness took the third bite of cybercode for breakfast. When I opened my eyes, I saw the slow motion of the aristocratic young master turning around - his newly installed prosthetic body automatically disassembled into parts in my pupils, and every screw screamed to tell me how to short-circuit it. I am Wen Wan, the lowest neural access operator in the entire cyber city, but there is a group of virus codes in my mind that can tear all electronic souls into data fragments.
They don't know that I just crawled out of the dead file. Those codes write poetry in my veins, and each one points to the city's dirtiest secret - I can make the most expensive combat prosthetic kneel down and call daddy, and I can also make the aloof mechanical council collectively blue screen.
When he raised his butcher knife at me in a duel field broadcast live to thousands of people, I laughed. His prosthetic body suddenly began to recite the encrypted communication records between him and his stepmother last night, and the entire city's signal towers simultaneously exploded into a rain of neon.
